


Adventures of the Consular's Companions

by Allronix



Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: Challenge Response, Competition, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allronix/pseuds/Allronix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The job of a Consular is to be a mediator, a diplomat, to patch over salient differences and reach common accord...and that's just managing her crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**"One Shot"**

 

Voss was a strange place. Things looked pretty and peaceful, especially within the sanctuary of Voss-Ka, but outside was a world that was a lot more “alien” than most. Alylia had insisted Felix go back to the ship after that incident in the Healing Shrine. It was some kind of life-transfer ritual and it really did feel like someone was reaching in and rearranging his guts, but he got through it (Aly's voice kinda helped in pulling him out of it and back to reality), and the Voss kid was okay. Mischief managed. He felt perfectly fine now, but he really couldn't blame her for worrying like a mother bantha and insisting on taking Nadia for the next part of the vision quest those guys wanted her to do. Qyzen had decided sitting around wasn't his thing and went to check out the local wildlife.  
  
It was hard to get more than a sentence out of Ambassador Attitude, but a lot of guys were like that. There was this one suicide jockey named Rusk; not much for conversation, but give that man a rifle, some mission parameters, then point him in the direction of some Imperials. You'd have the mission parameters filled to the letter, a patch of snow lit on fire, and...well...Rusk _sometimes_ brought back prisoners. Felix doubted Zenith would bother. Tharan was a different story; Nar Shadaa wasn't likely to change much, no matter how the war went. He had no relatives outside of Hutt Space, wasn't directly affected by the fighting. He said he was fond of Alylia and mentioned Master Syo Bakarn was no good at Pazaak (Most Republic citizens only saw Jedi in the holo-films. How in nine hells did a guy like him manage to be pals with two high-ranking Jedi Masters?), but any mysticism or talk of the Force was met with eye rolling and comments that were just this side of causing a diplomatic incident with a culture like the Voss. Wisely, Alylia told Tharan to stay behind. Frankly, the man seemed a little oblivious to the realities of the world around him. They didn't have to understand The Force or the Voss Mystics to know they _worked._  
  
That left the three of them in a forested patch just out of Voss-Ka's limits; all of them armed in accordance with the advisories, and bored out of their minds. Hence, the shooting contest. He and Zenith tried the usual; small rocks, shooting between the branches of a tree without burning the limbs. Tharan simply followed along, acting as referee as needed. Most of the time, he just didn't seem interested, occupied with whatever was going on in his head. They'd hear whatever he was thinking about later; in professorial detail, no doubt.  
  
“Let's try something a little different,” Felix suggested. “That little rock balanced on that big one way over there. First one to knock it off wins.”  
  
“Trick shot at best, Lieutenant,” Zenith said curtly. “Bad angle, long distance, small target.”  
  
“Wouldn't have suggested it if it was an easy shot, Ambassador. C'mon, let's try it.”  
  
Zenith shrugged and pulled the rifle off his shoulder, checking the angle, checking the position of the sun, aiming carefully...  
  
The shot crossed over the top of the smaller rock, close enough to leave scorch marks, but the rock itself remained sitting on its perch.  
  
“You try.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Felix got into position, checked the angle, checked the sun, crouched down for stability, and took his shot. His shot wasn't as clean as Zenith's, it went slightly down and to the right, blowing a hunk off the larger rock, but still not knocking off the smaller stone.  
  
“Yeah, we've got a bad angle here,” Felix admitted. “Looks like neither of us are going to -”  
  
“Pardon me, but can I give it a try?”  
  
Hell number four out of the nine froze over, because Zenith actually chuckled. “You and that Zhellday night Nar Shardaa pea shooter?”  
  
“I'll have you know this is a Czerka CX-38, one of the most efficient blaster pistols the company ever designed. No, I'm quite sure I can knock your stone off its perch with a shot from this.”  
  
“This I gotta see,” Felix said.  
  
Tharan stepped up, checked the angle, checked the sun's position, licked a finger and held it up to the air, then turned and started staring at the nearby trees and rocks.  
  
“Hey, Mr. Pacifist, you gonna shoot or not?” Felix teased  
  
He held up a hand. “Please don't rush me.”  
  
“No calling your holographic love slave, either,” Zenith said.  
  
That got something impressively close to a death glare out of the scientist. “Holiday is no _slave_ , Zenith. She is my _assistant,_ and please respect her accordingly. Now, let's see...” Something must have clicked because he nodded, straightened, and aimed...  
  
“You aren't aiming for -” Zenith stopped speaking when they saw what happened next.  
  
Tharan had shot through a thick vine holding down a thicker tree limb. Once free, the limb sprung up, flinging a rock caught in its branches. The rock landed on a stick balanced on a decaying nurse log, sending it flying end over end, knocking it into the smaller stone, which dutifully fell right off the pillar. Zenith and Felix were both left blinking in amazement.  
  
Tharan waked over, picked up the stone and the stick, handing the stone over to Zenith and the stick to Felix.  
  
“It's called _physics_ , gentlemen.”


	2. Paying the Piper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix always thought he would be asking some nice girl's _parents_ about this, not a Jedi Master.

  
Tython was certainly pretty. Felix had to admit that much. It reminded him a bit of Voss, with all the big trees and flowing rivers. He idly wondered how good the fishing and hunting would be here. Of course, he didn't seem to be able to travel a kilometer without stumbling on some ancient ruin from Jedi history that grunts like him had no business knowing, and when he touched one of them by accident, that old ache started in his forehead and radiated into his jaw; his "souvenir" of Althir.  
  
Of course, he was not there for sight seeing. When he saw Jorgan again on Carrick station, he bought the Cathar a beer for old times' sake. Real shock the man wasn't heading up a base somewhere, but less of a shock that he was second in charge of the Republic's Best and Brightest.   
  
_"You'd make Havoc if you weren't so damned interested in playing with fire, Iresso,"_ Jorgan scolded him after the second round. Yup, just like the old days on Ord Mantell. Jorgan had less of a stick up his rear these days, but it wasn't readily noticeable.  
  
Of course, once he crested the hill and saw the Jedi temple in the valley below, the majestic brass trim and beige stone outclassing everything including the spaceport, he was beginning to think Jorgan had a point. Walking its campus, he stuck out like a Wookiee in a Jawa tribe, getting more than one stare and confused look at his standard-issue armor and the heavily modified blaster rifle slung over his shoulder. It was hard not to gawk at it all - the huge, sweeping staircases, the high ceiling, the artwork that may or may not have been as old as the Republic.   
  
"Excuse me," he was approached by a green Twi'lek boy in drab, brown robes. "But, as you are obviously not a Jedi, I must ask your business here?"  
  
"Oh, Lieutenant Felix Iresso." He put out a hand to shake. Kid didn't bother taking it. _C'mon, man, don't grow up to be the kind of Jedi we want to stuff in the airlock_. "Got an appointment with someone. Yuon Par."  
  
That didn't exactly make the boy relax. "Master Yuon has been placed on medical sabbatical. She is not well enough to lend aid to the Republic military."  
  
"This is a personal call. Not business. I'm...working with her former Padawan."   
  
Jedi Kid still was doing a fine impression of a maître d' at a high-priced Coruscant restaurant. "Oh, yes. You must be the Republic soldier 'involved' with the Bar'sen'thor." The tone positively dripped with contempt. Worse, he said it loud enough to get the attention of everyone in a three meter radius. Felix was suddenly feeling about a dozen stares on him, including more than one that was accusatory, suspicious. One elderly Zabrak lady looked like she wanted to TK him into low orbit and probably could.   
  
_Great. Did not want to make the Jedi Temple rumor mill. Probably inevitable, though._ The Althir headache was starting to pound a little harder just for good measure. "Look, kid. there's a war outside - bigger things to deal with. Just point me in the right direction, and go on with your day."   
  
The kid pointed to a smallish door half-hidden by the big staircase on the right. "I'll escort you."  
  
The "escort" passed in silence, with a few resentful looks his direction. He knew the Jedi didn't like their members getting attached to anyone, and liked it even less when that person was a Republic soldier. Hell, the Republic military brass was going to like it even less. They didn't discourage having wives and kids like the Jedi, certainly, but fraternizing with Jedi was widely considered one of those things that gambled with the necessary partnership between the Fleet and the Order, which was not as rock-solid as civilians and Imps thought it was.  
  
His escort led him to a narrow hall and a plain wood door with a placard that read "MASTER YUON PAR, JEDI HISTORIAN."  
  
He sighed. _Always thought I'd be asking some nice girl's parents about this, not some Jedi Master._ He reached down and felt that compartment in his belt pouch. One promise ring, picked up shortly after the award ceremony on Coruscant. Surprisingly, Tharan helped pick it out; the man had an eye for shiny things and precious gems. Of course, it came with an inventive variant of "break her heart, I kick your shebs." _She has her codes. I do not....and there are are far more **creative** methods of making a man's life a living hell."_   
  
He asked the crew first, a couple of the diplomats overhearing it. Qyzen gave his approval, saying that their offspring would be "legendary hunters." Hallow Voice was inclined to agree. Gaden-Ko simply shrugged and said that he already saw their children. Zenith piped in with the "break her heart, I shoot you in your sleep." (The language was more colorful than that. Felix still wasn't sure what Balmorra was thinking by making the man an ambassador). Nadia squealed with joy and almost knocked him into a wall doing so; kid was getting better at controlling those Force bursts, but she still slipped up sometimes.   
  
_"Felix, don't worry about what they think. Almost everything I've studied about the 'perils of love' seems to be written by Jedi who've never experienced it themselves. They talk about 'uncontrolled passion' and the 'fear of loss' like they're poison. But these Jedi never discuss devotion, patience and compassion. I hear that from Master Alylia. I hear that from you. And you make her laugh. She didn't laugh before you came here."_  
  
So one trip to Jedi Central, several dozen stares, not-so-veiled contempt, possible PR issue with the Fleet and the Order on one hand...  
  
The woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with and the best guys he ever served with on the other.   
  
"Yeah, I _like_ playing with fire," he said as he knocked on the door.


	3. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tharan and Alylia didn't get off on the right foot...or any foot for that matter.

Mental manipulation, colloquially known as “The Jedi Mind Trick” was a common technique, a tool taught to Padawans as a way to obfuscate enemies, gain information, or defuse conflicts in a non-violent way. A push of the Force behind one’s words, accompanied with a focusing gesture, was no more morally dubious than any other Force technique. So long as it was used for the greater good and never for personal gain, it was an acceptable tactic, especially when it stopped a fight before it started.  
  
Dr. Tharan Cedrax vehemently disagreed.  
  
“ _Never_ do that again. Not in my presence.” Tharan sat next to her in the back seat of the speeder as the pilot droid guided it to Shadow Town, cross-armed and sourly looking straight ahead. Every time he tried to look directly at her face (and not her chest, legs, or other anatomical region), he never did it for long. It was a common enough human response. They relied on their eyes, Master Yuon had said. Alylia had always been a little confused by the importance many species placed on eyes – most species saw only very limited spectrum of light, and seemed blind by comparison.  
  
“We defused the conflict before he could draw his weapon,” she answered. “Did you want those mercenaries to start shooting?”  
  
She sensed the flicker in his aura – green-gray anger by a human’s description. He was not mollified in the slightest. “Yes, by invading his mind, brutalizing him, and stripping away his capacity to reason. That’s _horrifying_ , Jedi. _Nothing_ justifies it. ”   
  
Alylia felt her jaw tighten. For all his alleged genius and scientific prowess, the man was dangerously lacking in tact or common sense. “You would have been fine with him and his friends shooting at us?”  
  
“It would have been his choice not to listen to reason,” Tharan said simply. “And if his inability to listen to reason when he has my scattergun and your lightsaber pointed at him gets him killed, then the choice was his to make. ”  
  
“And here you were, boasting you were a pacifist.”  
  
“I am – by Nar Shaddaa’s standards. Life is sadly cheap here, and while I don’t welcome violence, it is an unfortunate reality. Do you know how many thieves have tried to make off with my inventions? I’ve had to give Holiday her own security system at considerable expense.”   
  
“A lot of trouble to preserve your toys, Cedrax.” It was far from a kind or diplomatic thing to say, and Alylia knew she was risking it. She still needed his help against Duras Fain, and she wouldn’t have been able to get this far without his help.   
  
“She may be holographic, but she is anything but a toy. Holiday is very much alive, I assure you.”   
  
Alylia chuckled darkly. “Then why can’t I see her?”  
  
“Jedi, I realize you’re used to brute ‘Forcing’ your way across the galaxy. Your kind are plucked from infancy, cloistered, cut off from all but a single emotional tie, and even then they discourage anything but dogma and duty. And upon maturity, you are little more than a deadly weapon to be pointed at your religion’s enemies. I won’t hold that ignorance against you, but there is your world and the world the rest of us live in; one where the Force means nothing and those ties, messy and irrational as they can be, are everything.”  
  
He was asking for a telekenetic shove. _There is no emotion; there is peace._ “I don’t think you understand Jedi very well.”  
  
“And I don’t think you understand regular people very well,” Tharan fired back. “Do you even know what you look like to someone who can’t use the Force?!”  
  
“Blind and helpless,” Alylia said dryly.  
  
Another flicker of his aura – he was actually amused by that. “I’ll admit, the mask is a little off-putting. From what little I know of Miraluka physiology, your optic nerves are completely vestigial, and I can find absolutely no data on the differences in neural patterning. Damned frustrating there are so few of your species in the galaxy that aren’t tied up in that equally frustrating order of yours…”   
  
Following the man’s thought process was like trying to chase a darter-fly – even without actively trying to read him, he seemed to bounce between five to seven ideas at any given time.   
  
But even as he prattled on about scientific matters and the minutiae of Nar Shaadaa, his words bothered her. She’d only been off Tython for weeks. She had been part of the Order since Master Yuon plucked her from the wreckage of what had been a home. She knew, vaguely, that she had a family once, but the concept was distant and strange. She only had the one clear emotional tie, a weakness, and that was Yuon. Even the mission she was on, while ostensibly for the order, was in service of her master, with a very real possibility that Yuon would have to be sacrificed for the greater good. She took a measure of pride, as did all Miraluka, in a sight that could disregard a lack of light and walls, see into auras, and cut through lies. The idea Tharan didn’t even possess a rudimentary sense of spirituality made him even more alien than Qyzen.   
  
There wasn’t a way to turn that sight on herself, however. What did she look like to someone as Force-blind as Tharan Cedrax?   
  
One of the six or seven trains of thought Tharan was keeping was colored dark, sick “reddish-brown” – **_fear_**. His indifferent appearance and attempts at neutral conversation, trying to cover for the fact he was _terrified_ of her. Focusing on strong emotions and petty matters to create “static” was a way to shield one’s self from a Jedi’s scans. More than one Jedi Master learned the finer points of playing mental games of pazaak or dejarik to distract anyone nosy enough to try and read their thoughts.   
  
_If I could do it to the mercenaries, I could do it to him._ Just a little push, long enough to take out Fain, get him safely back to his shop, and never see him again. It would be for the greater good, save lives. None would be the wiser, and he wouldn’t be afraid.  
  
 _If you do that, **he should be**._ He would at least be aware of the possibility, and if she was going to come to any accord with him at all, she would have to cut a deal.  
  
“Dr. Cedrax…Tharan. I give you my word – my personal word – that I won’t use the Mind Trick in front of you or on you.”  
  
His eyebrow raised and the six or seven tracks in his head suddenly snapped into single focus. “Your personal word? As Alylia Terel, no ‘of the Jedi’ in that?”  
  
“Just my word.”  
  
“Then accept my apology for being a bantha’s rear. I may not understand your order, or the Force, but I ought to be accustomed to strange bedfellows by now.”  
  
Alylia matched the raised eyebrow, though it was obscured by her mask. “I’m sure you _like_ making strange bedfellows, Tharan.”  
  
“I’m more into charming ones who can keep up with my intellect _and_ my insults,” he said, obviously back to flirting. “Besides, Fain’s the real problem here.”   
  
“Agreed.”  
  
The shuttle landed and Tharan got out first, opening the speeder door. “Shall we?”  
  
It was an uneasy alliance at best as they walked into one of the galaxy’s darkest holes, but at least it was an alliance.


	4. A Jar of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Jar of Trouble  
> Prompt: Irresistible Urges  
> Characters: Nadia and Tobas Grell  
> Spoilers: None  
> Summary: Little Nadia tests her abilities in pursuit of a treat.  
> Word count: 1180

**Title:** A Jar of Trouble  
 **Author:** Allronix  
 **Prompt:** Irresistible Urges  
 **Characters:** Nadia and Tobas Grell  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Summary:** Little Nadia tests her abilities in pursuit of a treat.   
**Word count:** 1180  


Spoiler

  
Daddy was on an important holocall, he said. He didn’t want to be disturbed. Nadia had spent most of the day exploring her backyard, finding pretty rocks, climbing a new tree. However, the last time she had eaten was when it was morning, but now the sun was low on the other side of the sky, her stomach was growling, and her head was starting to ache. She wanted food.

Looking around the kitchen, she couldn’t see anything in reach. No bread or fruit or snacks. She couldn't reach the knobs on the stove, either. But what she did see was a big, big jar of _har’kan_. The treat was a fruit that matured in winter. It was picked, cut up, and crammed into jars to age. The fruit’s sugars and enzymes would break down its thick fibers, candying it in its own juices. Someone had brought them a _huge_ jar during the last festival, and Daddy had put it on a high shelf, about three times her height.

Nadia knew she really, really shouldn’t get into the jar. There was more in it than anyone could eat. But the fruit was also wonderfully red, promising a sweet treat that would more than solve her hunger pangs.

She took a step toward Daddy’s office, but stopped. He was still talking to the silly-looking man who lived somewhere far, far away. She didn’t want to interrupt him, as he was probably talking about something grown-up and important. Nadia was a big girl, anyway. She could take care of this herself. Marching to the center of the kitchen, she stared at the jar really, really hard and asked it nicely to come down.

The jar wiggled on the shelf and stopped. Nadia sighed. “Please. I’m really hungry!” She lifted up her arms and once again “asked” it to come down.

The jar wiggled again, sliding close to the edge. Nadia thought at it a little harder, imagining it coming into her hands (though it was a really big jar and wouldn’t fit there).

The jar pulled away from the shelf, hovering in mid-air. Ugh, this was tough! It was making her head hurt more than her tummy. It was hard asking it not to fall as she pulled on it.

“Please come down nicely. Please come down nicely.”

The jar dropped hard a couple times (not hitting anything though), but eventually Nadia was able to coax it down to the floor. It was right at her feet, all that tasty fruit close enough to almost touch.

Almost – there was still a lid. But that was going to be easier than asking it to come down and not break. The lid was very large – the size of her hand with her fingers splayed all the way out. After trying to grab the edges of it like a steering wheel and push didn’t work, she tried again, this time thinking at it.

“Open, please.”

The lid obeyed, spinning off so fast that it flew away and knocked into the wall. Oops! But success at last. The thick, cloying scent reached her nose and ruby-red hunks of fruit in its own thick, sticky-sweet juice was all hers.

Greedily, she plunged both hands into the wide mouth of the jar and pulled out a big piece, mouth watering at the very sight. It was big and beautifully red, dripping from the skin. She marveled for a second before taking a big bite.

Yum! She gobbled three more bites until she felt a sour taste in her mouth and heard Daddy’s footsteps a second later.

“Nadia, what in the world are you doing?!”

Uh-oh. That’s what the sour taste was. Daddy was upset.

  


* * *

Tobas was nursing a headache of his own by the time he left his office. The Monarchs may have been elected on a platform of greater engagement with the galaxy, but it did not mean that they were going to agree to a flagrantly unequal trade deal. Worse, the isolationist opposition faction was busy pointing out the flaws of the Treaty of Courscant and arguing that the last thing their planet needed was to get tied up in someone else’s war, even if their best export was personal armor and small arms design.

He was looking for Nadia when he went in the direction of the kitchen only to see the massive jar of _har’kan_ floating in the air and right down to Nadia’s feet. He was too stunned to speak, thinking he maybe imagined it before seeing Nadia try opening the lid with her hands, and failing, then trying it with her hands and her mind and succeeding.

A massive jar she shouldn’t have been able to reach, much less lift, much less get open, and it was on the floor, wide open, with his four-year-old child devouring the contents.

“Nadia, what in the world are you doing?!”

She jerked up in shock a split second before he spoke ( _how could she **do** that?) _“I was hungry!” Nadia explained guiltily, hands, mouth, and parts of her hair dyed crimson from stuffing her face with candied fruit.

Tobas looked at the clock. Damn it all – that conversation had taken hours and it was well past lunchtime. Little wonder Nadia had taken it upon herself to eat, but it was the h _ow_ that scared him.

Nadia must have sensed his fears. His girl was always sensitive to the moods of those around her, a level of perception that was terrifying in a young child. “Daddy, are you mad at me?”

Pushing aside fear for the moment, he reverted back to a parent’s role, dealing with the here and now. “Not so much, Nadia. I should have realized it went past mealtime. But you’ll give yourself a stomachache eating too much of that at once. Get to the sink and wash up. I’ll put this away.”

Nadia got to her feet and walked towards the fresher. Tobas picked up the jar and looked at the shelf where she had pulled it from. It was high enough that even a large man like him needed a stepladder, and the jar itself was thick glass, held five liters, and had a tightly sealed lid. It weighed at least five kilos.

_It was easy enough to ignore her making her toys dance or explain away things falling from shelves, but she’s getting stronger. Worse, I have no idea why she can do this. Maykia, what would you do?_

Searches across the local holonet came up empty, and the closest thing he had seen to this were pictures in the forest-taken ruins he and Maykia had explored before Nadia was born; half-imagined tales of shamans and mystics working miracles, old superstition. There was nothing on Sarkhai that could explain how a four-year-old child could move heavy things simply from _willing_ them to move.

But the Republic was vast. Many cultures, many species, many planets. Maybe some of them, maybe one of them, could explain this. Maybe someone out there could help her.

Because he couldn’t.


	5. Civilized Eating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balmorra's definition of "civilized eating" may differ from the rest of the galaxy.

 

They needed a shower, a few hours' sleep, and a meal. Tharan was debating in his head what order he'd like them in. The Okaaran Droid factory was a technological marvel, but it stopped being a marvel by the second night when they found themselves crawling through greasy old maintenance ducts to avoid Imperial patrols and the ridiculous number of patrol droids. Seriously, the Empire didn't even conduct maintenance on the machines. They likely planned to produce war droids until the machines gave out, then go and shoot the nearest thing disagreeing with them so they could blame it on anything but their own irrational stupidity.

 

And all they had to eat were the pack of stale ration bars Madine had thrown to them before they left.

 

“We're not the Empire,” Alylia pointed out. “Republic military rations have to accommodate at least three-dozen species that commonly enlist. Means they're more concerned with not poisoning the recruits than how it tastes.”

 

Tharan sniffed. “You could have fooled me. Unappetizing protein pastes with the texture of slime mold hardly qualifies as 'edible.'”

 

“Tell me what I don't know, Tharan.” Alylia said with a sigh. “After being trapped in that factory for three days, I think I'd rather scavenge in the garbage.”

 

“And our 'contact' just has to go and meet us in Bugtown. Charming locale. Say what you will about Nar Shaddaa, but it's quite civilized by comparison.”

 

The petite Miraluka crossed her arms. “We've different definitions of 'civilized.'”

 

“Well, yes. Not every planet can be the Smuggler's Moon, though many aspire to it.” Tharan checked the map. “If he gave us correct directions, then his bunker is approximately a kilometer to the west. Qyzen's message said they would be going hunting for dinner in the meantime.”

 

“Oh, good. Something other than rations,” Aylia said with relief. “My mouth's watering already.”

 

* * *

 

The “bunker” in question was the bombed out ruins of what may have been worker housing several years...or decades ago. It had a roof, and walls, but not much of anything else. Even the vermin didn't seem to think of it as suitable living space.

 

The directions pointed them to the basement, which was probably the only part of this ruin left intact. Halfway down the staircase, Alylia cringed. “Ugh, what is that smell? It's like -”

 

The scent hit Tharan's nose a couple seconds later, and could generously be described as someone setting a pile of soiled underwear, industrial lubricant, and old speeder parts on fire.

 

It was a Colicoid. On a spit. Over a low fire that had obviously been started by heating rocks with a scattergun. “Zenith” (the name had to be an alias of some kind) and Qyzen were digging in. The Twi'lek was stoically munching his portion, leaned up against the back of the cave, watching the entrances warily, rifle on his lap. Qyzen had stripped nearly half a leg already and was cracking open the shell with relish, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm every few bites.

 

“I didn't know those things were edible.” Alylia seemed a little put off by the horrible smell, which was something of a relief to Tharan. Of course, he was more transfixed on the sight of a giant bug in the air – all legs up, roasting in its own exoskeleton.

 

“Good eating,” said their “guide,” lekku relaxed in satisfaction as he carved off another piece with his vibroblade and ate it straight off the point. “Friend here agrees with me.”

 

“ _< <This one put up hard fight. Many points!>>_” Qyzen grinned (at least, Tharan thought it was a grin) and held up a charred leg. “ _< <We honor with this feast.>>_”

 

Tharan sighed and pulled the ration bars from his belt pouch. “Ladies first.”


	6. There are Better Ways to Start the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three Outlanders, two ideas about breakfast. Only one can eat it.

“Aly, dear. You simply MUST try this.”

Alylia was getting used to her counterpart’s...eccentric behavior. Darth Imperius was everything she didn’t expect from a Sith.  He affected the mannerisms of your stereotypical crazed Sith, but rarely acted as expected - sparing enemies when possible, often with some justification of “ _Now, now, lovelies. Never kill what you may need to use later.”_  It didn’t prevent him from casual use of Force Lightning in everything from interrogations to practical jokes. His robes were brightly colored in combinations that almost clashed (Alylia couldn’t confirm—Miraluka sight had a few drawbacks).  His face was usually twisted into some form of smile that one could never be sure was friendly or “ _I’m going to have your entrails cold-smoked and turned into tasty sausage.”_

Add the third in their Triumvirate, a Miraluka exile turned Mandalorian, and things got even stranger.  Circumstances fell into place to have all three of them captured by Valkorian, having to share a mind with that monster, and co-leading this equally eccentric group of Imperial and Republic defectors to stand up to Zakuul’s threat.  Alylia could do little but accept that The Force had a sick sense of humor.

One whiff of the pot and it almost curled her nose hairs. “What  _are_  you cooking?”

“Tukata ragout. Takes hours to get the flavors all melded. And it never tastes right without the seasonings from Dromund Kaas. The Great Red peppers are  _essential_  to break through the gamy taste of slow-roasted tukata. And our friends in the black market just happened to get a box. Dried, not fresh, but can’t have everything. Of course, maybe the seeds are still viable.”

“It smells like they’d corrode durasteel.”

“Imperial scientists were looking into weaponizing it, yes, but they never quite got the formula down. It did work in the initial tests. Of course, it would be terribly embarrassing to the Republic to know that their ship hulls couldn’t handle a taste test. As it stands, it’s used in High Sith ritual dishes and sometimes for interrogation purposes.”

“You really are insane, even for a Sith.”

“ _Differently rational_ , dearie. Terminology is important.” He took a deep, satisfied whiff of the contents, glanced up from the pot, and looked to the bowl she had in her hands. “And whatever are you eating?”

“Rootleaf stew. Some of the Jedi who came here brought the plants from Tython. They grew well enough in the hydroponic gardens.”

“Jedi cuisine? Oh, should be interesting. Let me have a look.” Imperius wiped his hands on his robes, leaving greasy streaks on the thighs, and walked over, looking into her bowl. “Oh my. Jedi friend, I’m afraid the contents of your bowl must be spoiled.”

“No. Fresh,” she insisted. “Plants harvested last night. Cooked up this morning.”

Imperius took a fresh spoon from the table, dipped it in, and tasted. He immediately swallowed, gagging. “Oh, no! Little wonder Jedi are so thin! Is that supposed to be a form of torture? If so, very inventive – never knew you had it in you.”

“It’s what we ate on Tython at least twice a week. Apprentices got to cook it.”

A blue-green flash of sympathy and pity. “Slaves eat better. I should know.”

“Slaves eat better?”

“Aly, I wasn’t born into these robes. Why do you think I know how to cook? Of course, when I sent the kitchen knife into an overseer’s chest, my kitchen boy days were done for. Especially since I didn’t use my hands to put the knife there. That meant a one-way ticket to Korriban and a career change.”

She wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact he used to be a slave or the cheerful tone he just used to describe murdering his tormentor.

“Anyway, dump that out. Maybe the local vermin will eat it. Probably not. I cooked enough for both of us.”

If someone told her six months ago...well, five years and six months ago, that a kitchen slave turned Darth was offering to share his breakfast, she would have dismissed it as the product of some top-shelf Nar Shardaa intoxicant. But curiosity and hunger as well as diplomatic protocol pointed to taking a chance on Imperius’s cooking skills. So, bowl emptied, and spoon ready, Imperius merrily served up the stew.

“Come to the Dark Side, dear. We at least have decent meals.”

Alylia sniffed. Still enough to burn her nose.

She dipped her spoon in. Was the Force tricking her or did the chemical properties of the spoon change on contact?

She tasted.

She’s been on the receiving end of Force Lightning before, and the sensation was little different. The stew burned all the way down, starting a fire in her stomach and blasting every part of her mouth and tongue. She was pretty sure she doubled over and belched fire. Imperius, for his part, daintily scooped up some with a spoon, pinky outstretched. He tasted it, and went pale.

“Oh.”

With an alacrity that only the Force could accomplish, he grabbed the bottle of bantha milk that was resting in a nearby cooler with the rest of his ingredients and gulped half of it, offering the other half to Alylia, who gratefully accepted it.

“I...think I left the pepper in a...bit too long.”

That’s when Kita walked by, _bes’kar_ boots clanking on the tarmac, wrapped bundle under her arm. Leave it to their Mandalorian partner to come in at an embarrassing moment, as Alylia was still drawing on some of her limited healing and poison mitigation techniques to try and keep from folding over in pain and Imperius was stuck in a coughing fit.

“I was told someone was cooking tukata. Brought some  _haarshun_ bread to go with it.”

“Kita, be...careful,” Imperius warned. “It came out...bit too spicy.”

Kita shrugged, filled her bowl, broke the bread off into three parts, and used hers to dip into the stew, not bothering with a spoon. “ _Jate._ Could use some salt.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, couldn't decide which of my toons made for the best Outlander. Figured all three - stoic Jedi, silly Sith, and Mando'ad to referee - would be comedy gold.


End file.
